


Over The Mountains Far Away

by greenkangaroo



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation, finding the perfect warhorse, making sure elrond doesn't drop dead, oh and getting rid of annoying ghosts, there's also a war in here somewhere, this ain't your mama's Eol interpretation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:01:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenkangaroo/pseuds/greenkangaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Glorfindel dies his wretched death in Gondolin, he figures that will be it. He never factors in fate, an irate Vala, something remarkably like true love and the stubborness of dwarves or dwarf-raised smiths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the First:  In Which Glorfindel’s Glorious Death is Interrupted by a Particularly Chatty Dark Elf

\---

“I did warn you.”

He is on the edge of darkness. He can feel it, a precipice from which there is no withdrawal. The pain has faded and he supposes he is glad for it.

“But no, don’t listen to the blacksmith. He has nothing of value to say. Screams at the top of his lungs that his son’s a little shithead but APPARENTLY you’re all deaf. Must be a cultural thing.”

The face that swims into view over his is grim, and pale, black-haired and black-eyed. The last time he remembers seeing it it dropped suddenly out of sight over the edge of a cliff, a choked scream cut off by a sickening crunch.

“I said it straight to your pretty face, you know.” Eol Moriquendi informs Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, who is dying in the mud and snow.

“What were my exact words? Flowers and fire don’t mix, I said, look out for the tower flaming, I said, but no. Half my breath wasted on you pointy eared twits.”

“I’m dying.” Glorfindel doesn’t know if he says it or not, but the thought is there and that is apparently what counts.

“Well yes, you idiot, you are, and if you had any sense at all you’d shut up and go quietly.” The black eyes blink. “but you don’t have any sense which is why you’re not dead _yet_ , more’s the pity, you murdering son of an orc.”

Yet? What does yet mean? Dead is dead. Even now he can feel the pull of the gates of Mandos.

“Yet means don’t get comfortable, you big idiot of a noldo. SOMEONE needs to look after the Peredhel.”

Peredhel? Tuor, Idril. Had they made it? Had the forces rallied? He makes to sit up but can’t. Weight is on his chest, all around. Everything is getting dim.

“When you make it back, Noldo, you’ll have your job to do. But you owe me something.”

There is a rasp of a black metal gauntlet across his chest and for a moment, pain flares anew. He feels a heaviness, a strength he had not known.

“You killed me, and I do not forgive, and I do not forget. So there’s a task you need to do, when you come back. Nothing difficult. Nothing hard. Just someone you need to pull from perdition, lest you want me haunting your steps for the rest of eternity.”

“I owe you nothing.” Glorfindel cannot see anymore. There is a dark and terrible laughter.

“We all owe one another something, my Lord. You took my life, unfairly. I demand reparations.”

“How?” Everything is becoming muffled.

“Don’t worry. Even someone so hide-bound as you should be able to figure it out. Do it right and we’re both in the clear. Remember this: red as blood and black as stone, soul you seek run far from home. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off. Lots of work to be done before the end of the world. And I haven’t seen my son in an age.”

Glorfindel hears the doors of Mandos open, feels great claws close about his middle, and he sees all turn to silver glass.


	2. Part the Second: In Which There Is A Choice And Also A Boat

Glorfindel is strolling down an endless beach of white sand. He carries his boots in one hand. The elf- or creature that takes the form of an elf- beside him is visibly irked. 

"You were not meant to die." 

"I'm sorry." Glorfindel says, and he is sorry for so many things. 

"Neither were you meant to meet the Moriquendi." 

"I am dead." Glorfindel has nothing to say on the subject of Eol. He pretends as though that was all a strange dream. What do the dead dream? Glorfindel is not sure, as he can't say whether or not this beach is a part of the dreaming. 

"He has imposed his will upon you. It is an Oath which could be broken by the mandate of Eru." 

Glorfindel wiggles his toes in the sand. "An oath?" 

"Old magic. Not of Valinor. It was given only to the ones who never saw the lights. It was his execution that allowed it, for yours were the last hands to touch him." 

Glorfindel remembers this. He remembers the look of rage dropping off to one of shock and to a kind of bitter resignation. He remembers that before he disappeared, Ardhel's murderer smiled. 

He remembers that Maeglin smiled the same. 

"What is the oath?" He asks, for Glorfindel is at heart a soldier and oaths are much like orders to be followed, whether he likes it or not. 

"That I cannot say." 

This annoys Glorfindel. 

"I'm dead." he says. "I can't fulfill any oaths or protect any kings or save my friends anymore. You might as well tell me." 

"I cannot say, Glorfindel of Gondolin, because there is a choice yet to be made." 

Glorfindel notices that the beach is starting to bend, and around a gentle curve he finds he has been led to a small cove. There is a jetty of white rocks lancing out into the turquoise water and at the end of the jetty there is a boat. 

"That's a boat." Glorfindel says, unnecessarily.

"Yes." Agrees Mandos, in turn. 

"What do I need a boat for? I'm dead." 

Mandos says no more. Glorfindel puts his boots on and walks out over the rocks. He peers into the boat. It has packs of supplies, a cloak, a folded standard he recognizes as his own, and the sword he clutched while dying. He does not climb into the boat, though he lays out on the jetty and inspects it carefully. It seems to be a well made craft. He sees a bit of foam on the prow and realizes that it belongs to Osse. 

Glorfindel stands and turns to look at the Lord of the Dead. He puts his hands on his hips as he recalls his mother doing when she meant business. 

"I'm allowed to go back." He says. "If I wish." 

Mandos says nothing. 

"And if I go back, this, this hedgewitchery will kick in and I'll have to do something about it." 

This time, Mandos nods. 

Glorfindel turns to look at the boat. He thinks about Gondolin. He thinks about the sound of running water and the silver trumpets and the look on Ecthelion's face when he's been beaten for the fifteenth time at dice because none of his men will tell him Glorfindel cheats. 

"How long have I been here?" he asks. 

"Time moves differently for the eldar." Mandos says. 

"If I go across the sea a lot of time will have passed." Glorfindel knows this for a certainty. "Gondolin is gone." 

He remembers Tuor running, leading their people. He remembers little Earendil flying kits from the wall. He remembers a promise made to a beautiful lady on a stormy afternoon. 

_'Promise me you'll always defend my son, Glorfindel.'_

_'My Lady, you know that I would-'_

_'Promise me!'_

_'I swear it on my House, upon the golden flowers. I will always defend your son.'_

Another oath, and one he'd entered into willingly. 

He knows why Mandos says nothing. There is no choice here. 

"May I come back?" he asks as he climbs into the boat. "When all is said and done?" 

"The Doom was lifted." Mandos walks out on the jetty. "Yes, Glorfindel of Gondolin. When your work is done, you may seek again these shores." 

"And everyone will be here? Waiting?" 

Mandos says nothing and Glorfindel knows that he won't. The Doomsman does not control the choices of all. Still, Glorfindel is sure that when he sails back, Ecthelion will be waiting with a tankard full of ale and a belly full of fire, angry that Glorfindel had gone on to have more adventures but happy to sit around a warm fire and be a part of the telling. 

"Can you tell me about the Moriquendi's magic?" He asks as Mandos undoes the fine gray line keeping the boat tethered. The waves glide in to lift it up. 

"It will not harm you." Mandos says. "Not if you are true. Not if your spirit remains as bright." 

"Well what does _that_ mean?" 

Mandos does not reply. He doesn't have time. The water surges and Glorfindel is drawn out of the cove, out onto the sea and into the mist. He knows no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandos is often portrayed as very silent and grim, which of course fits him and his duty within the world of Tolkien. A tiny part of me always wants to make him a bit more- for lack of a better term- human. Here's hoping my Mandos is still believable.


	3. Part the Third: In Which Cirdan Is Going To Need A Refill

Cirdan the Shipwright had been alive for a very long time. 

He had seen the world when it was lit with stars, and he had watched as the sun and moon shone for the first time. He had been through more names than he could really remember. He had fought in none too few wars, sat on many a wise council, and in the end always returned to what he knew the best. That was to say, building ships, drinking, and waiting for the end of the world. 

So it wasn't out of the realm of possibility for him to be hallucinating the boat that was floating towards him, and the blonde elf in it that seemed to be singing what he recalled from discussions an age ago with a man named Tuor as a particularly bawdy tavern song of Gondolin. 

Of course there was the small matter of the water whispering to him that morning, telling him he needed to come to the beach. Cirdan had never before hallucinated the urgings of Ulmo. 

The fact that the boat seemed to be propelling itself, and was one Cirdan recognized, didn't help matters very much. 

The blonde noticed Cirdan before the elf could right his paradigms. "Ho the shore!" he called. "Is this Middle Earth? I hope so or I've taken a wrong turn!" 

Cirdan set his jug down on the sand and resigned himself to the fact that he was not imagining things. "Aye, it is!" he called back. 

"Oh good! I don't suppose you're a bandit?" 

Cirdan shook his head. "I'm no such thing." he replied. 

"Oh, well, that's marvelous. If the spell was meant to draw bandits I suppose I wouldn't have been sent back." The boat came to dock in the sand, its sharp prow stabbing forth like the blade. The blonde jerked and nearly fell out. He shook his head and righted himself. "I hate boats." he said righteously. He climbed out of the vessel of Osse none-too-gracefully and bowed. "Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower." he said. "And you are, my friend?" 

Cirdan looked at Glorfindel, looked down at his jug, and realized he would need a refill. 

"Son of an orc." he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Cirdan is probably the jolliest oldest beard-wearing elf ever. And that, having lived so long, he's just been driven to drink. All the time.


	4. Part the Fourth: In Which Glorfindel Is Brought Up To Speed, and Family Resemblances Abound

If Cirdan had any doubts that the golden-haired elf who had washed up on his shore was Glorfindel the Balrog slayer, they were put to rest when the two rode through the gates of Lindon. Some of his shipwrights had begun as refugees of the Noldorian city's fall, led to him by Tuor and Idril many ages past. On the wall they called their shock and awe and joy. By the time the horses had carried their riders to Cirdan's door there was a train of elves following, some singing, some crying. 

Cirdan took another swig from his jug and bid Glorfindel come inside. 

"So much has changed," Glorfindel said when the door had been shut to the multitude. "So much.." 

"Yet other things have stayed the same," Cirdan pointed out as a light meal was served, "such as elves who are dead staying dead." 

Glorfindel shook his head. "That tale is not so interesting as you'd think." he said. 

"Try me." Cirdan replied. 

Glorfindel told Cirdan of the beach, and his talk with Mandos, and the boat. "I was told that I needed to return, to go again to Idril's house." Glorfindel shook his head. "Idril must be long gone." 

Cirdan nodded. "She is." he acknowledged. 

"Tuor is dead?" 

"Aye, or sequestered. They sailed together to Valinor." 

"Their son?" 

"A star." 

"A sta- a what?" 

"It's a long story." Cirdan said. "It involves the silmarils. And the Feanorians, of course." 

Glorfindel looked uneasy. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning." he said. 

It took many hours for Cirdan to condense what had happened in the age that Glorfindel had been dead. By the time they reached Galadriel's passing to Lorien and Celebrimbor's kingship of Hollin the Shipwright was well and truly drunk and had taken to leaving parts out or adding them in, as was his desire. Glorfindel shook his head. 

"All this death," he said, "and they chose to return me? When my Lady is gone over the sea, and her son a star in the sky?" 

"Oh the line's not broken, Glorfindel." Cirdan said. "Not at all." He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "Tell me, Balrog Slayer- does the word 'peredhel' mean anything to you?" 

"Peredhel?" Glorfindel's brow furrowed. "The twins you told me Maglor and Maedros took in. Them?" 

"Aye, them." 

"What about them?" 

Cirdan struggled to remember whether or not that had been a part he'd edited for effect. "Did I, er, mention who their parents were?" 

"No." Glorfindel said. 

Cirdan grinned.

\---

It was two years before Glorfindel, once of Gondolin, rode from the realm of Cirdan the Shipwright seeking the Hidden Valley of Elrond Peredhel. By then word of his return had spread to all the elven realms. Though she had not left her home in Lothlorien, Galadriel had stretched her mind across the miles to speak with her lost kinsman. Glorfindel had been glad to hear from her, if a bit perturbed as to how she had decided to do it. It had been she who discerned the second reason for his return.

-There is a mark upon you, Glorfindel of Gondolin.- She had said. Indeed, there was a mark- right over Glorfindel's heart, where in his moments between death and the halls of waiting he had felt Eol, or the shadow of Eol, pressed a clawed gauntlet. The mark was a black tree, roots and branches meeting to form a circle. 

-It is powerful magic.- Galadriel had said. -The dying wish of an avari like the Moriquendi is not so easily ignored.- 

-Well that fills me with such glee.- Glorfindel replied. 

-Do not despair. if you do as you desire and seek the Peredhel, answers will follow.- 

Galadriel had always had a habit of being right, in her frustratingly vague fashion, so Glorfindel rode into Imladris one fine summer afternoon to much fanfare and singing and laughter. 

Then Turgon appeared at the top of the stairs and Glorfindel was off his horse and down on one knee before he even thought about the action. 

The singing ceased; a quiet fell. 

"So quick to bow when yet we are unknown to each other." The voice was not Turgon's. It was gentler, and far warmer. A hand touched his shoulder. "Will you not stand and let me greet you, Balrog slayer, defender of my father?" 

Glorfindel licked his suddenly dry lips and drew his gaze upward. No, not Turgon, though he shared Turgon's eyebrows and the dagger of a nose, and those silver-gray eyes had gazed at Glorfindel over many a conference table. Slowly the blonde elf stood and was surprised to find that he was a few inches taller than Elrond Peredhel. 

"Forgive me." He said. "For a moment you looked so like your grandfather..." 

Elrond smiled and there was another difference; Turgon had so rarely smiled. "You are not the first to tell me such, though you are the first to show deference so quickly. There is no need. It is I who am in your debt, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower." Elrond bowed, every inch an elvish lord. "Welcome to my valley, Glorfindel. Welcome to Imladris." 

Up the steps, waiting, an elf in black watched this first meeting. Glorfindel did not see him, but he saw Glorfindel. 

This was the beginning of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping I'm not muddling the history of middle earth too badly. Onward and upward.


	5. Part the Fifth: In Which Glorfindel Dreams, and Finds Something Familiar

"You know I don't appreciate being called a hedgewitch." 

Glorfindel is aware it is a dream because he is standing in a forge in a cavern, and there are no caverns with forges in Imladris. 

"I knew hedgewitches. I killed a few. They are nasty, disreputable people who do things like try to sell me ungoliant eggs." Eol moves the cup from the coals to the form on the table with a pair of tongs. "So, you made it." 

"No thanks to you." Glorfindel says. "I don't like your fond farewell." 

"The mark? I'll have you know that mark's as old as time itself, and represents a clan you didn't even know existed for all it’s been around longer than you have, you whelp." Eol pours the molten gold carefully. "So, how do you like the valley of the Peredhel?" 

Glorfindel thinks because he senses that it is an earnest question. "It is lovely." he says at last. "Warm, welcoming. He's done good work, continues to do great work, even with the shadows rising on the horizon." 

"Oh and they are shadows, aren't they?" Eol replies, moving the form to a leveler. “Nasty little present from the Valar, is that.”

Glorfindel growls. “Insult the Valar again and I will cut out your tongue.” 

“No you won’t.” Eol says, and wipes sweat or the memory of it from his pale forehead. “Here, Glorfindel, you have as much power as a cockroach. Possibly less. But we aren’t here to discuss theology. Tell me, have you seen anything familiar in your valley?” 

Glorfindel rolls his eyes. “I’ve been dead for an age. I wouldn’t know familiar if it bit me.”

“You surely would.” Eol says. “A ghost of it. A whisper. You can’t be that blind.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

“You’re impossible.” Eol mutters. “Should have gone with Ecthelion. …no, no I never would have gone with Ecthelion. He was a brute.” 

“Hey!” 

“He was, Glorfindel of Gondolin, and don’t you deny it.” Eol says, wagging one long finger in a motion remarkably reminiscent of Glorfindel’s mother. “Get enough ale into him and the fool thought he was Manwe.” 

This is true, and Glorfindel cannot contest it. 

“You’ll feel a familiarity soon.” Eol says. “Once you’ve found it, that’s where you start.” 

“Start what?” Glorfindel asks. 

This time it is Eol’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not allowed to give you all the answers, Glorfindel. That isn’t how this works. If it were, I’d have done it ages ago. Confounded elvish magic. I'd have used dwarvish but I don't know as your heart could handle being turned to granite. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to trust me.”

Everything is going sort of gray. Eol seems to be coming apart at the edges. Glorfindel is filled with a righteous rage. 

“Trust you?! I’d rather trust an-”

\---

“-orc.” Glorfindel watched the watery light of dawn stream through his window and groaned. He rolled over and stared up at the painted ceiling. Most nights he was lucky to dream of anything but fire and darkness. He scratched idly at his tree-mark and then sat up. There was no point loitering in bed when so much work had to be done. 

As he washed and dressed Glorfindel thought about what Eol had said. A familiarity?

As far as Glorfindel could tell, there were few familiar things. Books and scrolls could tell him his history (or the particular lore master’s version of his history- he was enjoying pointing out what was wrong.) Artifacts kept in the archives or in the halls could tell him of the Age he’d lived and died but there was nothing overly familiar about Imladris, if one discounted Elrond’s more than passing resemblance to his royal great grandfather. 

Over breakfast Glorfindel decided to put the whole thing out of his head. It was a Council meeting day, and he had other things to ponder. 

Glorfindel had been attending the Council meetings on a regular basis. He was not officially a member, but since he had been a member of great Councils in the past, and the meetings were the easiest way for one to learn the political ins and outs of the valley, Elrond asked him to attend. Glorfindel rarely spoke, merely sat in a corner and quietly took notes. Elrond would look the notes over and ask for the blonde’s insights. 

Glorfindel was torn on the subject. One the one hand, he liked to feel useful, and until things were arranged so that he might spend more than passing time in the guard rotations it was a way for him to fulfill that need. On the other hand he sometimes felt as though he were an insect a scholar was watching under glass, so intense was Elrond about what he was calling Glorfindel’s ‘secondary education’. 

All in all, however, Glorfindel preferred being in the Council meetings to laboring in the stables or with the fletchers or any number of other jobs that Elrond could have given him. Even when he was reduced to doodling pictures of various councilors in absurd outfits (and Glorfindel was convinced Elrond had kept the one of Daeron in ladies’ dancing shoes) he still felt useful. 

Glorfindel arrived at the Council chamber before everyone else, as was typical. That day there would be talk of trade with Moria, which meant indubitably that someone would begin shouting at one point or another. Glorfindel was looking forward to hearing about the intricacies of it, since Gondolin had never traded with the Dwarves, being so isolated. He was convinced that the entire meeting would at some point grind to a standstill and had firm plans to suggest brandy in order for it to continue. 

Glorfindel was setting up his writing utensils when there was a flash of black out of the corner of his eye. 

_Oh, it’s Maeglin-_

The line of thought had Glorfindel half on his feet, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. 

The elf, who was setting out his own ink and parchment next to the considerable agenda and pile of notes, rose an eyebrow. “Lord Glorfindel?” he asked. “Are you well?” 

Glorfindel took a few long, calming breaths. It was Erestor- Chief Councilor Erestor, Elrond’s first advisor and friend. Erestor spoke with few and spent time with even less. Elves of the valley compared him, both favorably and unfavorably, to a glacier. Glorfindel had seen him sweeping up and down the staircases of Imladris in his plain black robes, often with a book or pile of scrolls in his arms, looking irate at the world. He had been nothing but cordial to the newly arrived Glorfindel, if distant. Others had assured Glorfindel that that was simply Erestor’s way, and that he should not be bothered by it overmuch. 

“I am..fine.” Glorfindel sat slowly back down. “Apologies. I saw a shadow.” 

Erestor cast his dark amber gaze around the room. “Elrond is convinced we need more light.” He said. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to try knocking out a wall without consulting the blueprints again. Half the east wing nearly came down last time.” 

Erestor tucked a stray strand of black hair behind his ear. The motion caught Glorfindel’s eye. Then he leaned forward to pick up his quill. 

The way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he slowly blinked his eyes and his voice. His _voice._

It was all so…

“Familiar.” Glorfindel whispered. 

“What?” Erestor frowned. 

“Nothing, Master Erestor. It’s nothing.” 

Glorfindel swore he could hear Eol laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh-oh.


	6. Part The Sixth: In Which Glorfindel Braves The Library

Erestor had most likely been born in Sirion, one of the small multitude of Noldor refugees led there by Princess Idril and Tuor after the destruction of their city. It was also likely that he had been a part of a caravan that had fled east over the Ered Luin as the War of Wrath loomed. It was highly probable that he, like others, had taken up life in the Greenwood under King Oropher before meeting Elrond. 

All of this was likely and possible, but not definite. 

Glorfindel sighed deeply and watched the scripted movements of the guard trainees. A month since that Council meeting and he knew no more about Councilor Erestor than he did about mining. Asking around had gotten Glorfindel very little; Erestor didn't frequent the pubs and taverns of Imladris and he didn't share dinner conversation. 

Which meant it was time for research. 

Imladris boasted an extensive library and archive; what written information that had been salvaged from Doriath and the other great kingdoms of Beleriand had eventually wound up copied in the depths of the Peredhel's domain. It wasn't legends or histories of battles that Glorfindel was after, however. 

Practice concluded and Glorfindel gave praise and criticisms. He clapped the men on the shoulders and bid them off to do whatever it was they wished; laughing they agreed and soon enough the golden Lord found himself traveling the long hallway to the realm of the scholars. 

Glorfindel opened the upper door of the Library and peeked in. The shelves were long and meandering, the ceilings high and chapel-arched. Sunlight streamed in from tall windows with heavy draperies held back with scarlet cords. The tables scattered around held piles of books and elves- every kind of elf from student to blacksmith, reading or writing or simply staring into air and enjoying the solitude that this space provided. At the inquiry desk a light brown head of hair bent over a piece of parchment, writing industriously. 

Glorfindel closed the door behind him and winced at the heavy thud. The head came up and the elf smiled. 

"Lord Glorfindel!" the elf said. "What can I do for you?" 

"Hello, Melpomaen." Glorfindel said. Melpomaen was the younger of a set of twins- his older brother, Lindir, whose hair was several shades darker, was a minstrel. The twins had long been Erestor's lackies, and so Glorfindel had been hesitant to ask either of them for help on his search. Still, it was best to go to an expert. "I'm looking for old caravan records." 

"Caravan records?" Melpomaen asked. "From what starting point?" 

"Sirion." Glorfindel said. "I'm, ah, looking to see if there are any names I recognize." 

Melpomaen's face softened. "I see." He said. "We keep those records downstairs. Hold on a moment." He rang a silver bell by the desk and another librarian appeared from the stacks. There was a quick hushed conversation and she nodded, taking up the position behind the desk. Melpomaen stepped out and, taking a lantern, motioned for Glorfindel to follow him. The two elves headed for the corner of the library where a stone door was locked shut. Melpomaen opened it with a key on his belt and they headed down into the darkness. 

The air down in the deep was better for the old records; dwarves had aided in its building so that moisture was diverted away. The closeness of the stone did Glorfindel no favors but his slight claustrophobia was overpowered by his curiosity. Melpomane wandered the honeycomb shelves without fear. 

"Here we are." He said, stopping before a certain set. "These are the caravan records that survived the trek from Sirion. There aren't many," he said apologetically, "but I hope they help." 

"I'm sure they will, Melpomaen." Glorfindel said. He carefully withdrew the first stack of logbooks, crumbling with age, and set them on a nearby table. Melpomaen put the lamp down and the key. 

"I'll send someone down with lunch later?" he asked. Glorfindel nodded as he sat down and Melpomaen bowed and headed back up into the light of the library. 

Glorfindel began to read. 

The caravan records were kept by caravan leaders to keep careful track of their people. Some names were noted with the tiny symbol denoting 'death', and the cause was written beside him. Orc was there far too much for Glorfindel's liking, but as he had to keep reminding himself he'd been dead at the time; what was he to do? 

There were names he knew, certainly. Faces drifted by in his memory. House names swirled about him; Fountain, Heavenly Arch, Tree. He clenched his fists and kept reading. 

It took Glorfindel four visits, each lasting longer than three hours, before he had read through nearly all of the records from Sirion's caravans. Despite the names he knew- Helwaselde, Carmefalas- and names he didn't, like Sulovo and Alyahen- not one mentioned an elf named Erestor. 

Frustrated Glorfindel thanked Melpomaen for his patience and did not go to the Hall of Fire the night of the fourth fruitless visit. He sat in his rooms, drank the strongest wine around, and drew a portrait of Maeglin. 

Maeglin had been a handsome elf, there was no denying that. With his proud eyes and lustrous hair and strong, noble jaw, he'd had many an admirer. Yet there had always been something sad about him, something veiled and hidden. Even when he had returned from delving, and declared that he was done, he'd always seemed off kilter, wary. 

_Of course he did. He was planning to kill us all._

Glorfindel added in the finer features; the careful curve of Maeglin's nose, the tiny platinum lapel pin he had often worn, made in the shape of an owl. Once he was done the golden lord set down his wineglass and observed. 

There were differences, yes. Erestor's face was broader, his eyes a different color. 

There were similarities, too, and they were not easy to ignore. 

Glorfindel finished his drink and went to bed on a stomach empty of anything but wine, ignoring how awful he knew he would feel the next morning. 

\---

"How many names do you have, Glorfindel?" Eol was sharpening a blade. 

"Just the one." Glorfindel said. 

"Oh?" Eol examined the edge with a master's eye. "No extra epesses, no titles?" 

"None." 

"And you didn't give Cirdan a false name when you arrived on the shores." Eol turned to Glorfindel, leaning on his worktable. "Why?" 

"It would have been a lie." 

"Mmm. You aren't much for lying, I'll give you that. Other elves, however, are." Eol said. "You lie to one another on an alarmingly regular basis."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Glorfindel asked. 

"Well, think of it this way." Eol said. "If I were to move from a rotgut fish-laden town like Sirion to the Greenwood just before the entire bloody country was annihiliated, do you think I would keep the name I had?" 

\---

Glorfindel woke up and promptly puked over the side of his bed. 

"Fires of Morgoth!" he groaned, and climbed out of bed at the rate of a slug. 

Glorfindel (thoroughly chastised by the irate chamber maids at the mess he had made) sat in his little office with a muslin bag of ice over his head that morning, turning the words of his ghostly tag-along over in his head. 

_Do you think I would keep the name I had?_

"No." Glorfindel said. "No, you wouldn't." He looked out the window. Across the courtyard he could see Elrond examining one of the flowering bushes, speaking quietly with Erestor at his side. 

Erestor. _One who names._

"Oh bugger it all to hell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meaning of Erestor's name might not be solid; I found this particular translation on a random googled website and it suited my nefarious purposes. 
> 
> Melpomaen is a LOTR movie trilogy specific elf named by fans and is played by Bret McKenzie, from the band Flight of the Conchords. Bret returned to portray Lindir in An Unexpected Journey, hence my playing around with the idea that they might be twins.


	7. Part The Seventh: In Which Erestor Is Wary

Erestor was not blind to Glorfindel. 

Of course no one could be; he was _Glorfindel_. He was large and dynamic and sometimes sad, so achingly sad that it hurt to look at him. He had come from the sea with a tale so impossible it simply had to be true. 

These were not the things that concerned Erestor. 

He'd checked Glorfindel's story thuroughly, as was expected of him. The blonde warrior came out clean. There were no empty spots in his tale, no stone unturned in Erestor's excavation of the truth. Glorfindel of Gondolin was precisely who he claimed to be, and yet was so much more than that. 

Erestor didn't trust him one bit. 

The Chief Counsellor watched as Glorfindel discussed the balance of various Second Age blades with the Head Smith Nurachas. Occasionally she would say something that made Glorfindel laugh, showing bright and even teeth. In Glorfindel's presence the stern-faced Sinda seemed to loosen up. Were Glorfindel anyone else, Erestor might offer to buy him a drink for that alone; Nurachas could scowl through a beautiful summer day as though it had personally affronted her. 

Erestor had no plans to buy Glorfindel a drink. 

"If I didn't know any better," Elrond said to Erestor over their twice-weekly game of chess, "I would say you dislike him." 

"Dislike who?" Erestor asked, not looking up. Such a strange place to put a rook. Elrond had a plan. 

"Glorfindel." Elrond said, voice tinged with amusement. "You watch him like a mother doe watches a wolf." 

"Glorfindel is in all manners the epitome of an honest, honorable, somewhat stupid warrior." Erestor said, finally placing his piece down. 

"Yet outside of your first investigation you've done nothing to build camradrie with him." Elrond pointed out. "In fact aside from Council meetings you don't encounter him at all." 

"I am your Councilor, Elrond." Erestor reminded his Lord. "He is a soldier." 

"You were a soldier once." Elrond said. "Surely that's something to talk about." 

"I do not wish to discuss anything with the Lord Glorfindel." Erestor said. Elrond made a non-committal noise and shifted his queen. 

"I suppose you don't. Or won't. Odd. Check." 

Elrond won that match, as he won many; damn Man's game, he'd been playing it with Elros for years. Erestor bid his Lord goodnight and travelled down the darkened hallways. There were torches and light stones here and there, but Erestor did not need them. The dark had never bothered him. It felt at times like a blanket, all encompassing and comfortable. Very bright sunlight gave the Councilor raging headaches. He kept a few veils around for those days and always sequestered himself in his office; none save Lindir and Melpomaen would dare approach him then. 

In the dark Erestor thought of Glorfindel. Passing by the Hall of Fire, he heard the sound of a harp, and the Balrog Slayer's laughter. 

Erestor remembered his mother singing songs of the battle on the mountainside, of Glorfindel and the Balrog. 

_"It was so beautiful, Erestor. All fire and gold. Like worlds ending."_

Erestor closed off thoughts of his mother. The door to the Hall of Fire opened and Glorfindel came out, followed by a small group of trainees. 

Erestor melted back into the darkness. 

No, Erestor was not blind to Glorfindel who was once of Gondolin. 

He only prayed to the Black God that Glorfindel was blind to _him._


	8. Part The Eighth: In Which There is a Mother Gone and Paperwork Found Inconvenient

Erestor remembered his mother Before. 

It was from her he got his eyes; dark, most people said, because most people did not pay attention. In the right light those dark eyes lit up amber. They were somewhat unique and for a long time Erestor had been happy with 'dark' as a descriptor. Dark was a good word. It could be used for many Noldor. 

Being a noldo amongst noldos, that was best. 

When he was a small child, his mother had been happy. It wasn't a perfect happiness. Their quarters in Sirion had been cramped and dirty. Many elves had spoken unkindly to her, and she had spoken unkindly back. Erestor was thankful that he had not inherited his mother's temper, her quickness to rage and tears. 

(of course what came not from mother had come from father, and that was a treacherous road.) 

Erestor's uncle had taken care of the arrangements that got them over the mountains, when the time came. His mother hadn't wanted to go and Erestor thought, even now, that he should have been able to sense the madness in her; for who would stay in a dying place, penned in and locked out, with no air to breathe and no home to love? 

After came when they reached the Greenwood. Surrounded by Avari, by the remnants of Doriath, she only got worse. 

"Promise me, little crow," she said, "Promise me you'll never leave." 

Erestor had been young, and scared. "I promise." He said. 

Erestor grew, and he learned, and his mother's long shadow followed him even to the court of Gil-Galad. She would send him reminders in little packets. You promised to stay. Remember to pray to the Black God. Are you wearing your scarf? It gets cold on the coast. 

You promised to stay. 

Her passing had been sudden. There was little the healers of Greenwood could do, helpless in the face of such a determined fade. She had held on long enough for her son to come home to her, to stand over her and hold her hand. 

"Come with me." 

"No, mother." 

"Saucy child, come with me." 

"No." 

She had cried, and she had died. Her brother took care of arrangements for the burning of her remains, and he had taken Erestor's hands in his and said, "Perhaps now she is at peace." 

Erestor knew that was not true. His mother would never be at peace, not in some distant Hall of the Dead, not in the realm of Valinor from which she had come. There was no peace for Helwaselde Delve-Captain, Black Badge of the House of the Mole. It had been her curse, from the moment she concieved and escaped the burning ruin of her city with her babe at her breast. 

There would be peace for her son. Erestor was determined to have it, curse be damned. 

Sitting in his reading nook, in the hard-won suite of rooms that had been carved for he, he, Councilor Erestor, he remembered his mother. 

Melpomaen had come to Erestor on Glorfindel's third visit. Gentle Melpomaen, so much more subtle than his wicked little brother; no one ever suspected Melpomaen, which was precisely how Erestor liked it. 

"He's just looking through old caravan records." Melpomaen said. "He seems in control of all his mental facilities, but he is very determined to find something." 

"Let him look, there is no harm in it." Erestor said to his agent. "So long as he remains in the present, I believe there's no reason to fear." 

Melpomaen wrung his long, pale fingers and nodded fretfully before departing, visions of battle-happy Balrog Slayers destroying his library harassing his every step. 

Helwaselde's name was in those records. There was no mention of Erestor and there wouldn't be. He had expunged himself from them years ago, forging the page on parchment taken from Elrond's personal stores. Would Glorfindel remember her? 

How much did Glorfindel remember? 

Everything, presumably. He had proven that he had a mind as clever as a dwarvish steel trap. Glorfindel was an outgoing elf with deep running rivers. That made him dangerous. Erestor did not tolerate things that were dangerous. There was, of course, the problem of his arrival. One didn't simply brain a Warrior Returned with a rock as if to say 'Sorry, Mandos, you made a mistake, we don't need him after all, he might recall information that could put my life in mortal jeopardy so all things considered we'll just send him home.' 

Erestor was not a fool. He knew what waited for a child sired of Mole. History claimed that every member of the House had been killed. 

Erestor liked history. He liked how easy it was to alter it, a little smudge here, a bit of a rework there. No, there were no members of the House of the Mole living. Now they were of the house of Cirdan. They were bakers, tailors, sons and daughters of camp whores. They were tinsmiths under Celebrimbor, carpenters building talans in Greenwood. Erestor had built up quite the impressive repertoire of elves who were definitely _not_ of the House of the Mole. 

There was little Erestor could do to keep them from finding him in the first place. 

That was a part of his curse too, perhaps. He could always tell when they found him. It was given away in their gazes, in the worshipful, hateful fire of their eyes. Councilor Erestor. Lord had slipped once or twice, as he waved his pen and changed the paperwork and sent them on their way. 

Was Glorfindel a reader by nature? 

What did he read?

Did he read old contracts of employment, family trees, books of poetry? 

Erestor did not pray to the Valar as a rule. They didn't want to hear from him. He had survived, when he should have perished. Manwe did not get Erestor's words, nor Elbereth, nor Irmo on nights he could not sleep. Not even Namo got a whisper from the elf who came from nothing. 

The Black God, though. 

Erestor would as soon cut off his arm than desert his mother's patron. 

He stood from his nook and went to his altar, which was mostly bare save for the single black taper candle and his mother's knives. 

Erestor lit the candle and prayed to the God of hidden ones, of cut throats and spies and all in between.

_Keep him far from me._

Erestor had spilled a lot of ink and blood for these rooms, in this House, in this quiet valley. 

He would kill an elf returned to keep them, if need be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lovies, the Black God. Unlike Eugenides who features in my more dwarf-heavy fics, the Black God isn't a pagan God who manifested via the collective desires of the denizens of Middle Earth. Rather, he is one face of Namo, a separate aspect of a spiritual whole. Erestor considers them separate because he prays to only one aspect of the Vala of Death, having no interest in the rest of him. Which enthuses Namo to know end, I'm sure.


	9. Part The Ninth: In Which We Briefly Visit The Realms of the Dead, Which Are Louder The Shorter You Are

The elves believed that the dwarves had been a mistake. 

Namo found this funny, as funny as he found anything; who had twisted the tale, he wondered, who had said to whom that Eru had not willed the creation of a workforce destined to rebuild what had been broken? 

If he asked Varda, he knew he would find out; but Namo did like a little bit of mystery. It was some small entertainment where he saw all possible ends. 

There was a place for the dwarves and Namo did not frequent it. He was a solitary type by nature, and his Halls were quiet and contemplative and peaceful. 

The Heart of the Mountain was...

not. 

Always there was noise. The roaring of fires in forges and ovens battled with the echo of hammers and rasps and files. The tinkle of bells and the creaking of wagon wheels followed hobnailed boots on cobblestones and dirt and raw rock not yet mined. There was laughter and song and sometimes a fight or twelve, breaking out in the most inconvenient place where the high ceilings would echo and bring more dwarves running to witness the mayhem and make bets on it. 

Namo had to admit that his brother's creations, if not very peaceful, were passionate. 

He would also readily admit that he was happy they were passionate _away from him._

The ownership of Eol's soul, after he perished at the bottom of Carag-Dur, had been a matter of small debate. In rhaw, Eol had been an elf and thus was given to Namo's care; yet his fea was not sung of Eru, forged instead side by side with others of Aule's children. In the end, Manwe had declared the choice had to belong to Eol alone, as Eru willed it. 

Namo was not given to holding grudges- they were petty, fleeting things- but he would swear up and down that the moment Eol had a body to gesture with, he'd flipped the Vala of the Dead a very unkind gesture from the early days of Cuivenen. 

So in the Heart of the Mountain, the City of Dwarves in Waiting, Eol made his home after death. He labored side by side with the children of Aule, building and breaking down and building again as his skills grew.

He was working on a clockwork fox when Namo arrived. 

"My Lord." He said with all respect, though he didn't raise his head, involved in gazing through many settled lenses of his goggles, fine tweezers setting a tiny cog. 

Namo waited outside the forge door as he did when visiting Aule, because that was only polite and you didn't get to be the Vala of the Dead without knowing how to be exceedingly polite when the situation called for it. 

"Eol." He said once the elf had put his tweezers down. 

There was a moment of silence that could only be described as 'awkward'. 

"He isn't hopeless." Eol said. "Yet." 

If Namo were a vala given to sighing, he would sigh, long and loud. "So you say." 

"How is my son?" 

Namo didn't answer and Eol didn't expect him to. The first time they had 'discussed' Maeglin it had ended with a hammer thrown at Namo's head at dangerously high speeds. Not that it would have hurt at all, but it was rather the thought that counted. 

"If he does not act soon," Namo said, "Time will run out." 

"And if I had wings I wouldn't be dead right now." Eol replied. "What do you want me to do, spell it out for him?" 

"The choice must be his." 

"So you keep saying." Eol replied. "Which, by the way, I find infinitely amusing." He sighed and ran a hand over his sweaty braids. "You know this would be simpler if you just let me-" 

"No," Namo said sharply. There had been a talk, brief though it had been, of Eol entering the elvish halls and perhaps-

But no.

That was the last thing Namo needed. 

Namo wondered faintly why he even bothered. 

Oh, right. 

Fate of the world, and all that. 

Maybe he was getting soft in his old age. 

He left Eol to his clockwork fox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before someone gets up in my grill about interaction, please remember that Eol has been dead for a HELLA long time. 
> 
> And Namo's had to deal with him before.


End file.
